Shaken
by freedomqueen
Summary: Post S02 finale / In the aftermath of the shootings, Stella finds herself struggling with her own feelings. She may come to understand some truths she wasn't ready to embrace just yet.


**Author's Note:** Hello everybody! :)

First of all, I want to say that I'm pretty proud of myself for returning from the world of the dead. I missed writing, ouat wasn't helping much but thanks the universe I found inspiration (again).

Secondly, I must say this one-shot it's a gift for my internet best friend: **parrillayoung** (imagine and heart emoji here, pretty please). I promised this... what? a year ago? and finally here I am, keeping my word. I hope I won't disappoint you, I did try my very best. I ajshfjkhsjkfhas (love) you, my friend. **UPDATE**: she even created a "promotional" video for my fic that actually is more awesome and cool that the fic itself! Check it out here: .com and right after ADD - /watch?v=ks8sidthi9o

Finally I would like to thank to my friend and beta **RichelleBrinkley,** for her patience and dedication. My writing would be a completely disaster without you.

* * *

 _ **SHAKEN**_

Stella Gibson had always been stoic, rather than a demonstrative or emotional type of person. Several times, and not only by men, Stella had been called "The Ice Queen." And—truth be told—sometimes, if not most, she felt that way. Cold, emotionless. An Ice Queen.

Stella's hands were still soaked in blood—Spector's blood—and it seemed like they would never stop shaking.

From the back of the car DSI Gibson could see policemen and women coming and going, collecting every piece of possible evidence.

The ambulance had finally arrived. Spector was gone, Detective Sergeant Tom Anderson, her last—and current—affair, was gone too. Only Detective Chief Inspector Matt Eastwood and her squad remained at the crime scene. Stella herself was there too, despite everyone's reservations, and it seemed as though her hands would never stop shaking, almost as if confirming everyone's doubts.

A knock on the glass caught her attention. It was Dani Ferrington.

"Ma'am," the young policewoman called. DSI Gibson lowered the car window only enough so that she could hear what Ferrington had to say.

"It's Burns, ma'am. He wants to talk with you right away."

Stella huffed, unconsciously beginning to rub her temple. She didn't want to talk right now—not to Jim, not to anyone.

"Not now, Dani." Her tone offered no argument, yet it sounded resigned. Dani left, giving DSI Gibson an inquisitive look.

"Fuck!" Stella cursed, pounding her still-shaking hands against her lap and leaning back against the headrest. "Fuck!" The Detective Superintendent closed her eyes, "Fuck!"

The conversations with young Tom Anderson played over and over in her mind.

" _Are you all right?"_

" _You said a strange thing."_

" _When?"_

" _When you first asked me to interview Katie Benedetto you suggested I was like Spector. What did you mean by that?"_

" _I meant what I said… similar age, similar looks."_

" _Not anything more?"_

" _Like?"_

" _Something deeper. Deeper in his nature that you see reflected in me somehow."_

" _So you remind me of Spector? I fuck you therefore I fuck Spector? Is that where this is going?"_

" _It's a thought."_

" _Well... a repellent one."_

" _Would it be so odd? There's something fascinating about him. A strange allure."_

" _A woman, I forget who, once asked a male friend why men felt threatened by women.  
He replied that they were afraid that women might laugh at them. When she asked a group of women why women felt threatened by men they said 'We're afraid they might kill us.' He might fascinate you… I despise him with every fibre of my being. "_

There was also Spector's voice taunting her—leaving Stella exposed, naked. That was exactly how DSI Gibson realized she felt: naked. The pit of her stomach twisted at that realization. Spector hadn't killed her, and, at some point, Stella wished she were dead rather than naked in the spotlight. She felt as exposed as he had left his victims. DSI Stella Gibson had her clothes on but her very soul had been stripped—posed for everyone to see and contemplate. She couldn't stand it. Stella could imagine Paul Spector's excited eyes roaming her diary pages, containing her darkest yearnings, her unconscious desires, secrets, dreams.

Stella quickly opened the car's door, pulled back her hair and emptied the contents of her stomach–tea she had had this morning with Tom Anderson–onto the pavement below. ' _The Ice Queen has feelings after all_ ,' she thought bitterly to herself, and she could have started laughing if not for the fact that her mouth was still preoccupied with the task of throwing up the remainder of her morning tea.

"Ma'am!" Stella heard Hagstrom call, alarmed.

Before Stella could touch foot on the ground she felt strong arms encircling her, holding her weakened body in place.

"I need a doctor here! Call an ambulance!" was the last command Stella heard the blonde policewoman shout before she lost consciousness. Even then, she could still feel how her hands were shaking.

 **…**

"Ferrington here," Danielle announced the Central. "We are moving DSI Gibson to the hospital."

"What—what happened?" ACC Jim Burns asked, worried. Jim had never stopped caring for Stella. They had both been young and naïve, stupid—but even still, there were some things which you couldn't come back from. For him, Stella was one of those things.

"Where are you taking her?"

"The same place as Detective Sergeant Anderson and Spector, sir."

Jim rubbed his forehead. He knew Stella wouldn't bend—that was what he had always admired in her. But Jim knew better. He knew that you would either bend or break in life. His guess was that, finally, it was Stella's turn to break. Spector had broken her and he would pay for that.

"Copy that."

 **…**

Stella woke up to a constant yelling. She tried to sit up in the bed she was occupying but nearly ripped the IV from her arm in doing so.

"What the—" she cursed, scrutinising her arm.

"Ma'am, you cannot leave the bed," a nurse ordered, as she entered the room and ran to restrain Stella by her shoulders, trying to keep her in bed.

"I need to—"

"Stella," the nurse said sternly, trying to assert her authority. "You're not feeling well. Let me help—"

"Fuck off!" Stella said, raising her voice, shoving the nurse away and attempting yet again to get out of bed.

Paul Spector was still on her mind. He needed to be alive. He needed to pay for what he had done—he needed to pay for Fiona Gallagher, Alice Monroe, Sarah Kay, Annie Brawley, Rose Stagg. Stella had promised she wouldn't let him go away, wouldn't let him disappear. He would have to pay. Paul Spector couldn't die.

"I need help in here!" Stella heard the nurse shout.

Stella felt her body scream in pain as the IV was finally ripped from her arm. She had heard Jim's voice, and if he was there it couldn't mean anything good. Spector couldn't die—he simply couldn't. He needed to pay. For Fiona Gallagher, Alice Monroe, Sarah Kay, Annie Brawley, Rose Stagg. ' _For me too_ ,' Stella thought, before she felt something prick her arm. It wasn't only the nurse trying to hold her still.

' _Let me go_ ,' she thought. ' _He can't die.'_

When she lifted her cold blue eyes to identify the person who had doped her, Stella found Jim's worried eyes looking back at her.

"Sir, I need you to leave the room immediately!" a voice commanded, before she lost consciousness again.

 **…**

"Can I see her now?" Jim Burns asked the nurse as soon as he caught sight of her leaving Stella's room.

"Of course, sir. Might I also ask you to stay with her until she wakes up again? I get the impression it may stop Stella from making another scene."

"Sure," Jim nodded and walked into the room.

He approached a chair beside the bed and sat as close as possible to the blonde detective. Stella was sleeping quietly. Jim noticed her eyes were completely closed (not partially, like she used to do when she slept—or at least that was what Jim had concluded after sleeping several times with the DSI), her chest rose and fell rhythmically. Jim Burns thought that the only thing that gave Stella away were the bags under her closed eyes.

Hesitantly and after much debate, Jim decided to rest his hand over Stella's and lowered his head to rest beside hers—his thumb moved back and forth, caressing Stella's soft fair skin. Jim closed his eyes, thinking about the past. Would it have been a mistake, as Stella had said, if he had left his wife?

Stella drifted in and out of consciousness. She could tell someone was by her side. She felt a strong yet tender grip on her hands.

' _They have stopped shaking_ ,' Stella thought. ' _Is it Jim? It's definitely his cologne_.' But DSI Gibson couldn't talk. She felt tired, her eyes wouldn't open—they were so heavy. She tried to move her hand but nothing happened. ' _One more try_ ,' Stella thought to herself.

…Nothing. She was so tired…

Stella Gibson gave in and dreamt.

Stella was back in her hotel room. She was lying sideways in bed, clothed, her breathing was heavy. She could hear the water from the shower running. After a few minutes, Detective Sergeant James Olson came out of the bathroom. Olson smiled a goofy smile at her and walked over to the bed.

"Stella, shining star… It's a beautiful night—made me think of you," Olson said as he hugged her, resting his head against Stella's shoulder—yet she knew that those weren't the Detective Sergeant's words.

She closed her eyes and only woke up when she felt strong hands gripping her throat. Her eyes flashed open to the sight of Jim Burns' face. Stella was terrified, but she couldn't move or speak—she could only look into Jim's eyes, full of hatred.

"How is your father bearing up?" She heard herself say even though she couldn't speak as Jim's was choking her.

"That's what everyone always asks me first. 'How is Daddy?' It really pisses me off.

All the cards, all the lessons of condolence. They were all addressed to Dad."

"Yes, of course." Stella heard herself admit before considering a new question. "Sorry. How are _you_?"

"It's the right first question. I know it is. Fathers aren't supposed to bury their daughters," Jim said. Stella again knew the words weren't supposed to be his, but Sarah Kay's sister's.

"But?" she asked.

"But I can't remember a time in my life when Sarah wasn't there. There are so many if onlys.

If only she hadn't turned the police away.

If only the locksmith had changed the back door straight away.

If only I had just made her come and stay with us.

I just wish I could think about something else. For five minutes even. But there is so much stuff all the time, in the papers, on the television. And it is always Alice's picture. It's never Sarah. Today's paper even got her age wrong."

"It's just to do with Alice's name I think –The Monroe connection, the fund that's been set up."

"I worry because there's a number of victims. Sarah's lost her identity a bit." Jim said, taking the last of Stella's breath.

"Not for me," Stella argued.

Stella knew it was a dream. Why couldn't she wake up, after years of training herself to do so?

"I love you best in the whole wide world, Daddy." Jim said, and disappeared.

When Stella looked around she realised that she was standing in Spector's bathroom, only the rest of the house was a forest clearing. Beyond the bathroom floor Stella saw Rose Stagg's car. She wanted to go and check it out but she couldn't.

Stella looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. But it was Spector's face that looked back at her. Paul smiled.

DSI Gibson woke up agitated and scared, almost jumping out of the bed. Stella noticed she had startled Jim as well. He was on his feet, trying to hold her still.

"Easy. You're at the hospital."

"I know," Stella cut him off in a hoarse voice, "I know. Is he alive?" she asked, fearing Jim's answer, her hands starting to shake all over again.

"Barely. How are you?"

"I'm good," Stella lied. "Rose? How is she?"

Jim told Stella that Rose was alive as well. "Could you get me out of here? You know how much I hate hospitals."

Jim remembered, so he obliged.

* * *

 **8 MONTHS LATER**

 **London, England**

"I read the letter you sent me, Stella," said her psychiatrist, quietly.

Stella shifted in her seat.

"Eight months seems like a reasonable period of time for you to try and decipher a meaning. Did you?" he asked.

Stella closed her eyes. Yes, she had found a meaning, or so she believed.

"I'm just like him," Stella said simply.

Her psychiatrist gave her an odd, questioning look. Stella always spoke as if he knew everything, yet truth be told, that was rarely the case. He looked through his notes, scouring for a possible explanation. There were many names: Jim Burns, James Olson, Paul Spector, Tom Anderson.

"Who is it that you're alike to, Stella?"

When he locked eyes with his patient he noticed her eyes were glassy.

"Spector," Stella's voice cracked, yet she still maintained eye contact.

"In which way do you assume that you are 'just like him'? Spector is a murderer. Isn't he, Stella?"

Stella Gibson looked down at her hands—shaking once more.

"Yes, Paul Spector _was_ a murderer and I'm not—but I hunt them down. I expose them, toy with them. I don't paint their nails, but they are just dolls to me, like those women were to Spector."

A lone tear escaped her eye. The psychiatrist offered her tissues.

"Them? Who's them?"

"Men."

"And how is this related to your dream, Stella?"

Stella Gibson closed her eyes again, trying to recall the dream. Spector's bathroom. The mirror. When she looked into it, her reflection wasn't staring back at her, instead it was Spector's smug eyes.

"I'm like him. I—I destroy. I—I don't kill, but I'm like him."

"Stella—"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Lecter. But I really need to go," Stella excused herself, trying to contain her tears.

Hannibal Lecter watched as Stella Gibson ran from his office.

 **…**

When Stella got to her apartment she went straight to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror, breathing heavily.

' _It's you. Not Spector. It's you, Stella Gibson.'_

She closed her eyes and sighed. ' _It's you_ ,' she kept thinking to herself. And when she opened her eyes again it was to see her own reflection looking back at her. But deep down, she knew she was like him—in different ways, perhaps, but somehow still alike.

 _We're very alike, you and me. Both driven by will to power, a desire to control everything and everyone. Obsessive, ruthless, living and breathing moral relativism._

And that feeling wouldn't shake itself anytime soon.

 **\- THE END -**

* * *

Thoughts? If you feel like it, leave a review. I accept criticism and I'm always open to new ideas, for future works :)

Also, you can find me in twitter as julipemariani !

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